A Hundred Wishes
by trace-of-rouge
Summary: Only a child, Christine loses her father and finds herself wandering the streets. She finds a rough home in a traveling fair, singing till her soul loses light, and all she has left are wishes. But an attempt at friendship with the fair's notorious Living Corpse creates an enduring bond that lasts for forever and a day. AU, Leroux/Kay.


**_Author's Notes_**

I've been meaning to write a story now on the premise of Christine and Erik meeting as children, and learning to grow with each other, despite Erik's inevitable descent into darkness and revenge as an adult. I've always felt Christine and Erik's relationship is extremely thematic and spiritual-a relationship that is inherently between their souls. And ultimately, their salvation is in each other. I was inspired by The Laughing Man, starring Conrad Veidt, which follows a disfigured man and a blind girl who loves him (the actress, Mary Philbin, coincidentally also played Christine in the silent film of PotO) who are part of a traveling fair.

This story plans to follow them as children to adults, from Paris to the rosy hours of Mazenderan and back. A little ambitious, I have to admit, but I'll certainly do my best.

_A Hundred Wishes _

_I._

It was during the early morning of the start of spring when Christine found her papa dead. Christine had awoken in his arms, feeling the warmest and safest in the world, with the powdery blue sky turning brighter. She shook him, eager to begin the day. He didn't respond. She stood up, noticing how his arms fell limply when she removed herself from them. She picked up his worn violin and clung it to her thin chest.

"Papa," she said, softly, knowing it would do them no good to be heard. The night before was unforgiving and kept them cold and hungry. They sought shelter at a small stable at the back of an inn, with only an old horse asleep inside. Her papa coughed all night and, despite how much effort he took to conceal it, the old, greying handkerchief he owned was stained with blood.

She cried now, remembering him last night. He smiled the entire time at her, calling her his angel, and telling her, with all the kind intentions of a father, "The angel of music shall watch over you, my Christine."

Despite knowing it was hopeless, she repeated herself. "Papa!" This time, she was unable to stop herself from shaking him a little. She didn't know what to do-she was sure even her papa didn't know he was going to leave her so soon. She fell to her knees and cried while pressing herself closer to him. The violin was uncomfortable against her but she refused to let it go. She could feel the sun seep in through the old wood, and could hear the soft neighing of the old horse. She cried against his chest, staining the old thin cloth with her tears. She wanted so very badly to wake up and find all of this was just a dream-to see her papa smiling down at her, his violin under his chin, while she danced around him and sang. She wanted desperately to return to Sweden and to run into her mother's skirts.

The sun was high above when she heard voices nearing. Christine sat up immediately, eyes wide and frightened. Would they turn her away? Perhaps they would take kindly to her after her loss? She reached into her father's coat, grabbing the small purse of coins they earned at the fair yesterday. She tucked it inside her dress. She began to cry quietly again, wanting to stay beside him, but the voices turned loud and boisterous, and she knew they wouldn't treat her generously at all.

She gave her father a lingering kiss on his cheek before running out the stable and into the bright sun. What was she to do? The small village square was a few ways ahead, and perhaps she could find someone who could give her father a funeral! This filled her with hope. Maybe after a week of singing, she could earn enough for it. Christine was filled with childish determination, and quickly ran to the square, keeping the violin case and the instrument inside close to her chest.

The sun was warm on her skin, and the wind swept her blonde curls everywhere. She laughed, in all child-like innocence, quickly letting herself be happy. Papa is with mama now, she thought to herself. And soon she will have a spectacular funeral for him! She will deck it with wildflowers and silk.

The square was busy once she got there-too many people milling about, pushing their carts and shouting out to others. She was frightened. The horses were large here and seemed capable of trampling her. Without her papa, the world seemed to have gotten so much larger, and she seemed to have shrunk just as much. She ducked under a slowly passing old horse, and made her way to the center. Other children were playing and splashing about in the small fountain in the middle of the square. She was almost tempted to join them, but stayed resolute.

She quickly opened her father's violin case, then tucked the violin under her arm. The violin case was kept open for whatever the townspeople sought to bestow. She wasn't sure what to sing. In truth, her papa always chose the songs. She remembered how often she'd complain that she couldn't sing what she wanted, but now that she could, she found she had no idea where to start. Christine decided on a Swedish folksong her mother sang to her often.

She stood up straight and patted her skirt, then began to sing. First quietly, then her voice began to grow stronger. She couldn't help but dance a little in place. An old lady smiled at her but gave nothing. A few men laughed at her in delight, standing idly to watch her with their wives. With the exception of an old man with his grand daughter, she received nothing.

It was around noon when she realized she was going to get nowhere. She started to despair, frightened she'd never have enough for her papa's funeral. She took the one coin and placed it inside the small pouch before putting the violin back in its case. It was heavy now, her exhaustion beginning to envelop her. She lugged it around dejectedly, feeling unaccomplished and hungry.

She bought a small pie from the baker's, who very nearly accused her of stealing had she not quickly given him the payment. Christine was frightened of how people talked to her without her papa-they seemed to think she was bent on doing all sorts of horrible things! She ate quickly, eager to resume singing. Despite everything, when she sang, she could feel her heart soar and all her sorrow and pain seemed to just quickly disappear.

The town square was beginning to grow empty, many retreating into their homes, while others were shopping quickly. The men were laughing with others, drinks in their hands. Around this time, her papa would bring her to a meadow and let her play while he tuned his violin. She'd make herself a crown of flowers and declare herself queen. She thought of doing it now, but knowing her papa wasn't with her would just be painful. She realized tears were beginning to gather in her eyes again, and she quickly rubbed them away with her palms.

Her papa would never send her the angel of music if all she did was cry! With new resolve, Christine walked to the road leading out of the small town, thinking to return to the inn's old stable for her papa. She heard soft music coming from the trees, and quickly realized it was the fair! The gypsy fair from yesterday! Why, she could sing there!

She ran immediately towards the music, seeing the small tents and caravans around the area. The place was colorful and the clearing was wide and beautiful. There were many people, lots of them from the town, and they were all laughing gaily. Her heart swelled. Yes, this place would be perfect! She could sing to her heart's content and earn enough!

She very nearly tripped on her way to the spot where her and her father sang yesterday. She immediately removed the violin and placed the empty violin case at her feet. She stood up straight again, remembering her father's constant teaching of posture, then began to sing. Her voiced soared high, pure and clear. Two young women passed to give her two coins (Two coins, Christine thought with joy). After finishing one song, she had very nearly as much as they did yesterday. Pride swelled within her, and her heart was brimming with joy.

she thanked her audience graciously, and twirled around. A few women were delighted and patted her head. Before she could start on her next song, a gruff man grabbed her small arm.

"Ow!" She cried out. "You're hurting me, monsieur! Please let me go!" He grunted at her.

"Where's your father, little mouse?" He was keeping her arm up and it was twisting unnaturally. The pain brought tears to her eyes, and she began to cry.

"Let go, please!" She kept her sobs in as best as she could.

"Answer me first!" His spit flew in the air.

"He's dead, monsieur! My papa's dead!" He let her go at once and stared at her strangely.

"Dead, you say?"

She cradled her arm against her, sniffling loudly. Christine was very ready to run away. "J-just this morning, monsieur." She loathed to keep talking to him politely, but her father always taught her to be proper.

"Well, then, what are you doing here?" He took a glance at the violin case, then said, "Ah. Earning for yourself now, are you?" He sneered at her, then laughed cruelly.

"For my papa's funeral," she explained, anger in her voice. Who was this man and why did he care what she did, anyway?

"Is it now!" His tone was mocking and Christine couldn't help the angry tears. "Well, that won't be enough!"

"I know that, monsieur!" Christine snapped, then quieted. "It's only my first day."

"I told your father yesterday that if he plans to play his silly strings, he'll have to give me ten percent of his earnings. That's how it works in this camp. If you're out to do the same, then I demand my payment." She gaped at him, completely unsure what to do. At this, the man grinned. He snatched up about half on the coins in the violin case. "This," he began, counting them in his hand. "is my payment."

"Ten p-p-percent of my coins and you'll let me sing whenever, monsieur?" Christine was eager. She didn't know what ten percent meant. But it didn't sound so bad, did it? She looked at the few coins that remained, her heart sinking a little, but forcing herself to compromise.

"That's the deal," he murmured at her, still counting the coins. He suddenly looked at her, and eyed her from head to toe. "Say, how old are you anyhow, little mouse?"

"Nine, monsieur," Christine replied. She took the coins from the case and stuffed them in her small pockets, frightened he'd take more.

"Ah, too young," he said, confusing her. "Well then, go on and sing. If you'll be here tomorrow, I'll come around again." He said all this almost pleasantly before walking away, calling out to a group of men with a laugh.

Around this time, the crowd had thinned and though Christine sang and sang as much as she could, her throat began to hurt and the hunger in her stomach was far too strong to ignore. All her earnings amounted to barely anything, but she was loathe to use what was inside the pouch. She ran back to the village, eager to eat but found all the shops were already closing, except for the local taverns and inns. Hungry, but feeling accomplished, she told herself to endure it just for today. Tomorrow was sure to be better.

The sky was growing dark, and the stars and the moon began to peek out of the clouds. Christine wanted to run to the meadow and play with the fireflies. She was full of hope for the next day. If she started early, perhaps she could earn far more than she did now. Nevertheless, she could sing and that seemed enough to nourish her.

She walked back to the old stable. She neared the inn, and slipped past the rowdy crowd at the front, and went behind the newest stable which housed more horses. She was greeted with a bored look from the only horse, and she smiled at the welcome. She walked towards to back, where she left her papa. The straw beneath her feet crunched at every step, and she started to grow uneasy. Somehow, things didn't feel right. She found herself in front of the spot where she left him and saw nothing but hay. She screamed.

Her papa was gone! He wasn't there at all! Someone had taken him away! She began to cry, frightened at his disappearance. She was going to throw a funeral! She would decorate it with wild flowers and silk! Christine cried loudly, searching for him throughout the entire stable, when a man burst in.

"what in heaven's name-" He stopped at seeing her frightened, crying face. The man was burly, large, and frightening, especially in the dim light of the stable. His look of surprise quickly turned to anger. "You're the damn child who left her father's corpse here to rot!"

At the mention her papa, Christine ran to him, clutching on the cloth of his trousers. "Where did you put him, monsieur? Please give him back! I promised him a funeral!"

The anger left his eyes, and he looked almost pitying. Christine continued: "Please! I'll pay you! Please give him back to me, monsieur! My papa is all I have left!" He grabbed her small wrists and tore her away from him.

"Hush," he said quickly. He hesitated. "Your papa... he's in heaven now, child. He's gone."

"But his body! I promised a funeral, monsieur-"

"Be quiet! Your papa's gone! You shouldn't have left him here in the first place." At this, he turned sad, realizing that a small girl of her age wouldn't have been able to do anything else anyway. "You must leave. If Madame finds you in here, she'll skin both of us alive." The man gave a little laugh, but Christine wasn't pacified. She needed her papa more than anything. She cried louder. He covered her mouth with his hand, and carried her outside. Christine began to struggle, suddenly very frightened, and dropped the violin case. It made a dull thud on the ground. The man quickly picked it up for her, then deposited her on the road.

"Your papa is in heaven! The good Lord took his body away," he said, then reached into his pockets and took out a coin. He thrusted it into Christine's hand, then roughly shoved the violin case against her chest. "Now, go! You've made enough trouble as it is." Christine stood still, knowing deep inside he was lying.

"Give him back," she said with a shaking voice. The man began to walk back, and she ran after him. "Give him back to me, monsieur! Please!" She was crying loudly again. Immediately, the man turned around and slapped her cheek. She staggered backwards, quieting from the shock.

"Don't follow me or you'll receive worse than that!" With that, he went inside the inn. The men laughing at the front gave no notice of what happened at all. Christine stood there, her cheek stinging, and her dress already dirtier than before. The coin in her hand felt heavy, and her palms felt sweaty and cold. It began to dawn on her that she'd never see her papa again, and with it came a sudden startling realization that she had nothing and no one in the entire world. She threw the coin away, angry at the man for lying to her and taking her papa. She wanted to run back after him and scream, but knew she would never have the strength for it. She resolved to go to town and find a place to sleep in the alleys, or maybe in a stable of another inn. She'd hide under all the hay and no one would see her. Christine couldn't help the tears that fell as she walked. She clutched the violin case tighter against her, crying for her papa.

Christine passed the gypsy camp behind the trees again, and could see a large bonfire illuminating everything. The shadows of the trees looked so long, as if they were reaching out to her. There was loud laughter, although she could tell that there were no more townspeople. It must be the performers, she thought, eagerly. There was singing, too, and shrieks of delight. She sneaked towards it, hiding behind the trees and watching. She could see the man who took her coins laughing with a drink in his hand and a pretty woman at his side.

A woman was singing boisterously, and Christine was startled at her voice. She seemed to be growling more than singing, and it frightened Christine but fascinated her at the same time. Did the woman sing like this during the fair for people, too? Is this how she earned her keep? At this question, Christine realized she could do that. She could sing! Perhaps she could be a part of this traveling fair! She could sing for everybody and she'd do her utmost best to please everyone. She'd make friends and she'd find people-people to take care of her, like her papa. She would be happy here, wouldn't she? She glanced around the camp. The fire made everything warm and bright-the vibrancy was infectious, and Christine's spirit sang at the joy. How she longed to no longer be alone.

A loud laugh stole her attention, and she could see the man with her coins grasping a boy's arm. The boy seemed much older than her, probably already a teenager. And he was so thin, Christine saw. He was practically swimming in his clothes. The arm that the man grasped was so pale that it reminded Christine of winter in Sweden. The man was laughing at the boy, jeering and taunting, but Christine knew this could be the moment for her to ask if she could work for them! She stood up and ran from her tree, running immediately to the man. A dancing woman nearly collided with her. When she neared the man, she noticed the boy with him wore a mask-it was a very ugly mask: only a rough piece of cloth that covered the entirety of his face, and badly cut holes for his eyes. When she approached, he stared at her unashamedly, and she couldn't help but do the same. His eyes were a color she's never seen her entire life; it reminded her of the fire in the middle of the camp. Almost forgetting herself, she quickly turned to the man.

"Monsieur," she said loudly. The man turned to her, surprised, and his grip loosened on the boy. At this opportunity, the masked boy immediately bolted from them, quickly running away to the edge of the camp. He was so fast! Christine was almost impressed.

"Little mouse," he said, looking very surprised and annoyed. His eyes narrowed at her. "Come back tomorrow-we're closed, as you can see."

"I'm here to work!" Christine surprised herself at the lack of trembling in her voice. She clutched the edge of skirts tightly, trying to keep herself from shaking.

"To work?" He laughed loudly, and the woman at his side grimaced at the volume of it. "What are you going to do? You're too young-" he laughed again. "-and too pretty to be a freak!"

"I-I'm here to... to..." Christine couldn't find her voice after his mocking. She suddenly wanted to cry again. Her bravery was beginning to quickly fade away, and she found that it was very difficult of her to remain brave to begin with. "

"Spit it out, child," he said, taking a quick drink, his eyes already beginning to wander away from her.

"I can sing!" Christine said. "I can earn enough! Y-y-you saw my coins, monsieur, I can earn that much or more in a day, I swear on it! I'll sing as much as I can! Please, monsieur!" He seemed to consider this, then turned to the woman at his side. The woman gave a sly smile.

"We should keep her, Jacques," she said, and Christine felt warm with gratefulness. The woman turned to her. "What is your name, my dear?"

"Christine, mademoiselle!" Then noticing the man's arm around her waist, Christine immediately reddened, and said, "M-madame."

"Not yet," the woman laughed, with thinly veiled disgust. She curled a finger at Christine, as if beckoning her to come closer. Then quickly wagged the finger at Christine's face. "we have some rules, however-"

"Ten percent of my earnings!" Christine piped in quickly, eager. Her eyes were bright.

"Well, if you plan to stay with us-and we are to feed you and give you a bed-we'll have to demand thirty percent!" The woman smiled, showing her teeth, and Christine noticed she had lost many. The man-Jacques-laughed.

"Thirty?" Christine was crestfallen. Ten percent took nearly half of her coins, what was thirty going to do with her earnings? But she had food, she reasoned, and a place to stay. Wasn't that enough? And people, Christine thought again. People to take care of her... a family. Despite that, she was considerably less eager now. "A-a-all right, mademoiselle. Thirty p-p-percent." She couldn't stop the trembling in her voice anymore.

The woman remained smiling, and leaned against Jacques. He grinned widely.

"Welcome home, little mouse," he said.


End file.
